The ones I like best are the ones
with windows lit up:"Rooms for Tourists," "House at
Dusk."In those there is a cool inner glow
at least—and with it hope of warmth, however
insubstantial,against the shadows of the nightwhich fall down over everything.I can imagine the people inside
of them,solitary, yes, and yet not utterly
lonely,perhaps reading or passing slowly
from room to room,a hairbrush or toothpaste in their
hand.And the phone a silent instrument
on the hall table—a kind of peace emanating from the
receiverand from the light bulbs overheadwhich are overloaded with silence.The compartments of the houses are
as enclosedas the berths on an old Pullmanwhere, as a child, I rocked and
rocked to the roundmetal repetitions of the wheels,not terribly concerned about where
I was going,the tunnel ahead, the rusted bridge
we might pass over,or the torn cities beyond it.